The Case of the Camberwell Vampire
by CommadoreRobespierre
Summary: Two young women are in hospital and the papers are proclaiming vampire attacks when Holmes and Watson are introduced to concerned lover Herbert Lancaster who implores them to investigate a Doctor suddenly attempting to woo his patient; Lancaster's love.


**The Case of the Camberwell Vampire**

Sherlock Holmes studied the paper intently, his long face buried amongst its pages. He seemed to be concentrating on one particular article, for he had been staring at it for several minutes. I sipped my tea absentmindedly, determining not to disturb one of my friend's frequent reveries. Eventually, his searching glance swept upwards, the bright dark eyes fixed upon my face.

"What is your opinion of vampires, Watson?" The question startled me, if not for its suddenness, then for its subject.

"I don't know how to answer, Holmes; I have barely any knowledge in such a field."

"Do you believe that they exist?"

"The myths are not unfounded, I suppose, but at this point I have no reason to believe that they are factual." His gaze lingered, probing my features to verify my words. The lips curled slightly into the hint of an amused smile. He folded the paper and tossed it over to me.

"Page seven, the article at the bottom."

"'The Vampire of Camberwell,'" I read aloud. "'Police are currently investigating the remarkable series of crimes resulting in the hospitalisation of two women in as many months. Both women were found insensible near their homes in Camberwell with two small circular wounds to the neck. Police Inspector Lestrade is competently heading the investigation into these most singular occurrences.' Most singular indeed, Holmes," I exclaimed. "I wonder how the police are treating it."

"As a mystery of unknown proportions," said Holmes, with a dramatic gesture of his hands, indicating his distaste for the London police force.

I was about to ask him of his own theory when there came the sound of our bell followed by the rapid thudding of feet up the stairs. There was a slight pause, then a young man with wavy brown hair and dressed in a well worn overcoat against the cold opened the door. His cheeks were flushed and his blue eyes intense and imploring with frustration.

"Forgive me for my intrusion," he cried. "But I am on the verge of losing my beloved, and you are the only hope I can think of."

"Calm yourself, my dear fellow," soothed Holmes with an air of anticipation of another puzzle to occupy that great mind. He guided the young man to a chair. "Sit down and tell us what has occurred when you're ready." Holmes examined the man as he regained his composure and I too attempted to apply the logical train of reasoning I knew would be swiftly occurring in his head. The young man was undoubtedly middle class, unmarried and a tradesman of some description. He was deeply moved and it took a moment for him to contain his emotions.

Mr. Holmes, I come to you a desperate man," he began humbly. "I am deeply in love with the most beautiful woman alive-"

"Ah yes, that would be Jane. Your brooch," Holmes added in response to the young man's startled glance. "But you have not told us your own name."

"Herbert Lancaster."

"And you are a construction worker." Herbert Lancaster was a shocked as before. Holmes laughed. "Your boots betray your trade, and if that were not enough you bear traces of your work in the coarseness of your hands and the bearing of your manner. But from your language you are also well educated." Lancaster nodded.

"My parents believe that education is the key to all doors in life."

"And quite right too," agreed my companion. "But, please, continue your narrative. What is Jane's last name?" Holmes turned his attention back to his notebook which he balanced upon his lap, pencil in hand.

"Kingsley. We are very much in love, Mr. Holmes, and I am in fact in the process of preparing to ask for her hand in marriage. I know that she loves me as much as I do her. I tell you this to add weight to the problem I will now lay before you. Jane suffers from the after-effects of having had polio as a child and as such is compelled to regularly see her Doctor whom she has known for nearly ten years. This Doctor has always treated her with a certain degree of contempt due to her somewhat timid nature in answering questions. He frightens her, you see, and becomes most frustrated when she doesn't answer his questions. But he is a good Doctor and enables her to cope with her pain most effectively. But recently he has taken a sudden inexplicable interest in her."

"When exactly was this, do you remember?" interjected Holmes.

"She first spoke of it two weeks ago; it must have been the fifth of May." Holmes noted this down.

"I know that this is not as exciting a request as you must be accustomed to, but I am willing to pay you," began Herbert.

"On the contrary, this is most stimulating!" said Holmes with a familiar spark in his eyes. "A fee does not concern me, only your complete cooperation as to my instructions."

"I'm only too happy to oblige you, Mr. Holmes."

"Well then, let us examine some facts: you are concerned because this man's behaviour is highly unusual and perhaps threatening to yourself?"

"Jane's heart belongs to me, but yes I am very anxious as to Doctor Berger's intentions. In fact, the reason I arrived here just now in such a state was because I discovered a letter imploring Jane to meet him for dinner!"

"Do you happen to have this letter with you?" Lancaster rummaged in his coat pockets and produced the letter in its opened envelope. Holmes took out a glass and scrutinised it minutely.

"Hum, he wrote it from his surgery in a hurry, possibly to avoid being interrupted. Left-handed from the writing and most methodical in habit."

"Why, Holmes, how can you tell?" I asked in awe of my friend's comprehensive deductions. He smiled at my incredulity, despite my intimate knowledge of his techniques.

"Quite simple, Watson, if you employ a logical chain of reasoning from the result to the effect. The writing is tilted to the left and not quite in a straight line, whereas the letter itself is folded with care, indicating a man of precise habit who in this instance wrote in a hurry. Apart from the angle of the writing, the smudges produced are characteristic of a left-handed individual. Apart from these clues I can derive nothing more of interest. Is there any more information you can give me, Mr Lancaster, about this man?" The young man considered, and then shook his head.

"I hardly know him; I've never had a need to until now."

"And you have no suspicions as to his motives?"

"I can't figure it out! Jane is less well off than he with no rich relations and he has always treated her with the same indifference as any patient to my knowledge."

"It seems we will need to pay this man a visit, and also Jane."

"We are having tea together at her house tomorrow and you would be most welcome to join us. Two O'clock, number six on Salisbury Road."

"We would be delighted, that is if you are available, Watson?"

"I can easily arrange to be available at that time."

"Excellent." Holmes stood to escort Lancaster to the door. "Tomorrow, then."

"Thank you, both of you," Lancaster smiled, much more at ease with the assurance of our aid, and departed.

Holmes turned to me, his face alight with the glee of another case.

"What do you make of our friend Herbert Lancaster?"

"He seems earnest enough," I replied. "It certainly is an unusual occurrence, this Doctor's sudden behaviour."

"Indeed, Watson. And the occurrence becomes even more peculiar with another clue I withheld from our client lest it guide him to unfruitful action."

"Another clue? From the letter?"

"From the writing." Holmes handed me the letter and I stared hard at the scribbled text. "Describe it to me."

"An educated form of lettering, looks as though it is usually neat, although not in this instance. It is indeed slanted slightly to the left."

"And the letters themselves?" directed my friend.

"They appear scrawled."

"More than that, Watson: they appear tremulous as though from an unsteady hand; the man was either in a state of fright or nervous tension, or is quite ill. We shall see which tomorrow morning."

"We're meeting him tomorrow?"

"No, Mr. James Kingsley and his carer will meet the good Doctor tomorrow. That is, if you're not averse to playing the role of carer?"

"Of course not, Holmes, though I confess I don't see the merit in such an elaborate pretence."

"Trust me, Watson. It shall be a most interesting day tomorrow. For now, I'm going for a walk. Don't expect me for a few hours."

The following morning Holmes roused me before dawn, his eyes bright in anticipation of his plans. As I got out of bed, I observed my friend's worn garments and unkempt hair. Holmes caught my eye and smiled mischievously. "The worst is yet to come, Watson," said he.

"I hope you won't think less of me once I am in my role, though you must treat me so momentarily."

"Whatever do you mean, Holmes?" I asked.

"I am to play an idiot, an invalid in need of a consultation and you are my long-suffering carer, and you must treat me as such with as much condescension as you please. I am a cousin of Ms. Kingsley visiting London and you have heard that Berger is her Doctor."

"A fine plan," I remarked. "Except for the fact that you are not ill, no matter how well you act."

"True, but I have not eaten since yesterday morning nor slept last night and exercised considerably both yesterday and this morning, so at the very least I will be weak and the Doctor will recommend rest."

"You're most committed!" I exclaimed. "Though I hope you will rest, speaking as a Doctor."

"No need to worry, Watson," grinned Holmes. "We've both been through harder circumstances. Now, let's get you dressed! We can't have Doctor Berger recognising a fellow practitioner."

At precisely eight O'clock Mr. James Kingsley, escorted in a wheelchair by his carer, Mr. Andrew Lake, entered the surgery of Doctor Berger. His secretary looked up from her desk.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

"Yes, thank you," I affirmed. "My name is Andrew Lake; I'm the carer of Mr Kingsley. We're visiting London, but James seems to have become ill and I've heard that Doctor. Berger has taken good care of James' cousin. I don't suppose he could spare a few minutes for an examination?" She consulted a diary, running through appointments with her finger.

"I'm afraid he's quite busy all day, but his first appointment isn't for another ten minutes. Perhaps he won't mind seeing you briefly."

"Who is this, Margaret?" The Doctor himself appeared in the door way. He was thin and pale with coal black eyes; he certainly wasn't in full health - a thin sheen of sweat coated his face.

"Andrew! Andrew!" cried Holmes. It was easy not to recognise my companion, for he was completely transformed. Even now, his wide eyes started vacantly, a broad grin upon his face.

"No, James, Andrew is my name." I replied patiently. "Sorry, Doctor. Mr. Kingsley isn't in possession of his full faculties. He's also become ill on our visit and I heard that you were also the Doctor of his cousin."

"Jane Kingsley?" asked the Doctor, interested.

"Yes. I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes for an examination, just to be sure. It's difficult to judge illness for a man in his condition."

"Of course, of course. Come in," smiled the Doctor. We followed him into an examination room furnished with a desk, several chairs and an examination bench as well as various shelves stacked with books and medical tools. "Now," said the Doctor when I was seated. "What seems to be the problem?"

"For several days now, James has eaten very little and generally been either quite agitated or completely fatigued. You must understand that his level of communication is quite low – he normally doesn't sustain basic conversation with strangers for more than a few minutes, though he is almost normal with Jane. He has also become quite weak so that I have been compelled to transport him in this wheelchair as it is the easiest way; he's not very strong even when healthy. I fear he may have contracted an illness of some sort."

"I see. Well, Mr. Kingsley, if you'll sit still I'll take a look at you." Holmes had been straining in his wheelchair in order to see as he appraised the room with a calculated eye behind the dumb façade. He let out a whimper and shrunk back in the chair as the Doctor approached.

"It's alright, James," I soothed. "This is Doctor Berger. He's going to help you." Holmes turned his head away stubbornly as the Doctor tried to check his pupils and temperature. I leant down and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, as one would a child. "Stay still now, James," I murmured. Holmes groaned in protest and twisted awkwardly as Berger took his pulse. I stared in wonder at this great man reduced to the lowest level of humankind, the great intellect masked in helpless stupidity. Suddenly, as the Doctor attempted to take his blood pressure, Holmes thrashed and grunted in dissent, roughly tearing the hands away.

"Off! Off!" he cried and grabbed Berger's shirt sleeve. I sprang from my chair with an exclamation as the sleeve ripped in Holmes' fury and assisted in restraining him. He seemed to calm as I held him, as a well known friend would.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Berger," I apologised. "He isn't himself."

"That's quite alright, Mr…"

"Lake. Andrew Lake. So, how is he? Physically, of course."

"So far as I can tell he's just weak, in need of a good rest. However, I should like to take a sample of his blood to analyse; I am fortunate enough to have access to a microscope. It's a shame I can't question him to achieve a more accurate diagnosis."

"A blood sample?" I enquired. "He won't like it, I'm warning you."

"Just a little prick. Perhaps if you hold him down."

"Are you quite sure?" I cautioned warily. . "I don't see how his blood has anything to do with it."

"I don't know about you, Mr. Lake, but I like to be absolutely specific and as certain as possible about a diagnosis, or indeed any notion, before I act upon it. Please, trust me as a physician." I looked down at Holmes who was still glaring at Berger, lips compressed in a pout.

"Yes, of course, Doctor," I said contritely. "You must know best. If that's what you propose. Let me just settle him first." A twinkle in Holmes' eye disclosed that he had caught the minute tinge of disdain in my words. I knelt before him a moment, murmuring reassurance. "Now you just let the nice Doctor take a tiny bit of blood to look at, alright, James? I'll just stay here with you…" I gently rolled his left sleeve up, then took hold of both his arms as the Doctor came forward with the needle. As soon as he caught sight of the needle, Holmes began to moan fearfully again, turning wide anxious eyes upon me, though behind them I sensed the calm reason of his true identity. "It's alright, James," I soothed, conscious of how easily this patronising role was to play. Holmes struggled and whimpered as Berger took the sample. I held him down, watching uneasily as my friend's arm was punctured and blood drawn, though I dared not interfere however uncomfortable this consultation made us both. Holmes glowered angrily at Berger, nursing his arm as the Doctor stood upright with the needle, canister now a half full.

"There, now that wasn't so bad, was it?" Berger smiled emptily, a Doctor's professional smile. "Here, bandage his arm with this." He tossed me a bandage as he prepared to store the sample.

"How long before you have some results?"

"Come back in a few days. I should have a precise diagnosis by then. For now, he needs rest and plenty of water. Lots of vitamins and fresh air."

"Of course, Doctor. Thank you for seeing him, and I'm sorry about the trouble." This was more to Holmes than the Doctor, though he couldn't have known it.

"Not to worry, not to worry," he replied with a nonchalant wave.

Holmes remained slumped in his wheelchair until we were in the hansom speeding across London. In an instant he was transformed from a barely responsive invalid into the sharp-minded man I knew so well.

"A dashing performance, Watson. The man barely looked me in the eye."

"Yes, Holmes, but to what purpose?" I remonstrated. "Surely all that ordeal wasn't worth merely a glance at him?"

"On the contrary, Watson, I have gathered several important pieces of information."

"The Doctor himself is ill, that much was obvious."

"Did you also observe the needle marks on his left arm where I tore the sleeve?" My stunned expression indicated that I had not. "He covered them rapidly," he added.

"That could be a number of things – antibiotics, drug abuse, blood donation…"

"Possibly. It's important in any respect. Note, too, his keenness to see me as soon as you mentioned Ms. Kingsley."

"A natural reaction, surely?"

"Quite likely, but do not overlook all the facts in harmony, Watson. It is only through connecting all the facts that we arrive at the correct theory." Holmes' gaze averted to outside as another train of thought evidently began to pursue itself in his mind.

"And you have a theory already?" I ventured to disturb his reverie.

"A possible notion," he replied vaguely.

That afternoon we found ourselves at the gate of six Salisbury Road being welcomed by our friend Herbert Lancaster.

"Do come in," he beamed. "Jane is out in the garden if you'd like to join us." He led us around the side of the house to a lovely secluded area including roses and a garden table. Seated in one of the chairs was a pale, but handsome woman. "Jane, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his associate, Doctor Watson."

"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Kingsley," I said. Holmes smiled politely and looked at her keenly.

"And you, sir," replied the young lady shyly. Herbert indicated for us to sit and passed around some biscuits and tea.

"Jane isn't entirely certain of my consulting you, although she is as baffled as I am about Doctor Berger's behaviour."

"Exactly how long have you consulted this Doctor?" asked Holmes. Ms. Kingsley hesitated, obviously nervous. Holmes smiled kindly. "I'm just trying to get detailed facts to determine the truth, you needn't worry about discretion. We're here to help you, Ms. Kingsley."

"Nine and a half years," she said softly.

"And he's never shown any interest in you other than strictly professional?"

"No."

"May I ask how severe your current condition is?" She looked away from his penetrating gaze.

"It's often uncomfortable to walk, though I try to exercise my legs as much as possible. Some days are worse than others. It's very gradually getting slightly less painful with medication, but it will never go away completely, according to Doctor Berger. And if I contract a severe illness things could get much worse. Herbert is always so supportive, so caring of me. I wouldn't be able to cope with this without him." She smiled warmly at Herbert, a smile that lit her whole face. Herbert took her hand then turned back to us.

"Thank you so much for helping us, fellows. We simply can't understand it," said Herbert.

"It's nothing," answered Holmes. "But, please, allow me one more question. Has Doctor Berger asked you anything peculiar recently, anything that seemed unusual at the time?" She seemed to consider, but the apprehension in her eyes foretold her answer.

"Well, about two weeks ago he pressed me to donate blood in the interest of other patients, but I consistently declined."

"She has a fear of needles," added Herbert. Holmes nodded.

"I can relate to that." He smiled at me mischievously.

"A few days after that he suddenly started asking unusual personal questions," she continued.

"Have you disclosed any personal information other than medically relevant?"

"No, I don't think so."

"And then yesterday the letter arrived," added Herbert.

"Has it been answered?"

"No, not yet. She doesn't intend to go, but if you want her to…"

"No, that won't be necessary. I advise you to avoid contact with the Doctor outside of the surgery."

"Of course," agreed Herbert eagerly. "We'll do what you advise." He hesitated slightly. "I must ask; do you have any possible explanations as to the Doctor's behaviour?"

"Several, but I'd rather not reveal anything before it can be proved. And one other thing, I would prefer that the Doctor remain unaware as to our interest in him, if you please."

"Naturally," agreed Herbert.

"I must admit, I'm completely in the dark as to this Doctor's actions," I disclosed to Holmes back in Baker Street. He's definitely hiding something; there is an irregularity to him and his professional conduct I can't quite place. Holmes?" My friend seemed distracted, his brow furrowed at whatever he happened to be contemplating at that moment. "What is it, Holmes?" He rose from his chair and began to pace the room.

"A thought." He continued pacing steadily, eyes upon the floor. "Have you ever had a thought that, once it has occurred, remains at the back of your mind despite all distraction?"

"If it is something of importance or something I should not forget, yes."

"This is no ordinary thought, Watson." His blazing eyes fell upon me, dark with trepidation. "It is a wild and terrible thought which I dare not give credit to, and yet…" He had halted before the window and now turned his gaze upon the street below, musing. I sensed his turmoil, yet knew there was nothing I could do unless permitted entry to the thoughts of this great mind, of whatever fear he had uncovered from the facts laid before us. I kept my silence, therefore, and went over what we had learned in my own mind, trying to guess what had put my companion in such a foreboding humour.

For the following day Holmes did nothing but read the papers of both the present and the past several months.

"Any news of this 'Camberwell Vampire'?" I asked. Holmes peered closely at me.

"You want to know whether to stock up on garlic?" he taunted sardonically.

"I'm merely curious, Holmes; I told you I don't believe in vampires."

"What else could this curious chain of events be?" he goaded.

"Ordinary bats attracted to a specific perfume? I don't know. Why are you playing devil's advocate?"

"No cause for offence, my dear fellow, only amusing you should ask at the moment I opened that exact page of yesterday's paper."

"Why, what do you think it is?"

"I'm no more certain than you are, Watson, but I think it will be resolved soon enough; such a strange affair must have the utmost attentions of the police." His dark sarcasm exasperated me.

"Are we to do nothing else today but debate the existence of vampires?" I reproached him.

"There is nothing we can do but await fresh developments. Tomorrow we'll visit the Doctor again and call in on Ms. Kingsley. Enjoy the time while we have it, Watson. It's a beautiful day; I'm going for a walk."

For our second visit to Doctor Berger, Holmes forewent the wheelchair, though he walked without his usual vigour and sense of purpose, swaying his limbs in such a manner as to make him seem lankier than he really was. The secretary recognised us this time and bade us go straight through. "Hand, Andrew, hand," demanded Holmes as we passed through and grasped my hand. I smiled, in the character of the carer once more.

"No need to be afraid, James; no poking and prodding this time around." The Doctor was hunched over his desk perusing some papers when we entered. Once again I was struck by his ghostly pallor which seemed even paler than before. "Sorry to disturb you. Doctor; we were wondering if you had a precise diagnosis for James yet." Berger jumped, evidently startled, but immediately resumed a professional manner.

"Ah yes, Mr. Kingsley and Mr. Lake, isn't it? My, you're looking much better, and no wheelchair!"

"Yes, he's recovering quite well after a good rest, aren't you James?" Holmes ignored me, instead wandering over to admire a bookshelf.

"Well, I could see no anomalies in his blood, so it seems just a severe cold after all. He should be fine in another few days." Berger started as his gaze averted to Holmes.

"Mr. Kingsley, could you put that down, please?" Holmes had discovered a small box tucked away at the back of the shelf and was in the process of gingerly rattling it to his ear.

"James! Put it back." Holmes had just licked the box, much to our astonishment. He looked to me, his face a mixture of childish insolence and guilt.

"I want to see," he declared stubbornly.

"It's not your box, James. Respect the Doctor's privacy and put it back where you found it. It might be something precious." Sullenly, Holmes replaced the box and, in response to my stern gaze, slumped into one of the chairs.

"I must apologise," I addressed Doctor Berger again. "He can be very juvenile at times and quite independent at others."

"That's quite alright, Mr. Lake," Berger had recovered. "I'm sure he wouldn't have damaged anything, but better to be safe…"

"Certainly. Well, thank you for your time; I'm relieved that he didn't contract any debilitating illness. Shall I see your secretary to arrange the matter of your fee?"

"I would be much obliged. Just tell her that I will charge you the rate of one consultation."

"Thank you, Doctor. James, time to go. Would you like to thank Doctor Berger for his help?" Holmes stood up and met the Doctor's eye for an instant, but looked away again almost immediately.

"Thank you, Doctor Berger," he mumbled. "I'm sorry about your shirt."

"My pleasure, James," replied Berger amiably, but remained seated. "That's perfectly alright; I've already had it fixed. You enjoy your visit in London. How long are you staying for?" Holmes hesitated nervously and looked at me.

"You can tell him, James; there's nothing to worry about."

"Two weeks."

"Are you staying with your cousin?" enquired the Doctor innocently. Holmes shifted his gaze, as though struggling to maintain the conversation, and mulled this over.

"No. Near where she lives. Where do you stay?" Berger laughed.

"I live close to the surgery, quite near to your cousin as well, I believe." Holmes grunted, now absolutely refusing to make eye contact, instead staring intently at the floor.

"I think we've almost reached the limit of conversation for today," I smiled kindly. "You did well for him to speak with you; usually he doesn't talk so easily to strangers."

"Well, perhaps we'll remain friends, eh James?" Berger smiled at Holmes who briefly returned it diffidently.

"I must determine the contents of that box!" exclaimed Holmes in the carriage.

"Of course we must! Naturally, the only course of action available to us involves trespassing and possible burglary."

"This particular box was at the very back of the shelf, all of which was entirely covered in dust except for the box which was also the only container in the room that I could see which was securely locked," he clarified. "I also happened to discern minute traces of what, upon closer examination, appears to be blood.

"That's why you licked the box?"

"You look most relieved. Surely you didn't think that I was hungry?" I tactfully ignored this jesting remark.

"Just because you tasted iron doesn't necessary mean that it's blood; it could be rust, for example."

"And water could be milk?" Holmes stated. I stared at him blankly.

"I'm sorry?"

"The difference in appearance to the trained eye of rust to blood is approximate to that of water and milk to the untrained. But perhaps you don't like milk? A violin and a viola, then. Or the sea and the sky."

"Yes, alright, Holmes," I snapped. "Don't tempt me to test your first metaphor by pouring them on your head respectively. And what if it is blood? Perhaps there is a set of scalpels in the box; I don't see how you can justify trespassing in the Doctor's surgery." Holmes sighed, instantly causing my vexation to vanish, for this the first time since I had begun working with him that a flicker of uncomfortable doubt had, in my presence, crossed his face.

"This time I haven't irrefutable proofs or a warrant on my side; only the necessity of knowledge," he said slowly. "You are not obliged to accompany me on the trip I make tonight, Watson. I wouldn't accompany myself if it weren't required," his old manner began to return, "but I am myself and so must accompany me. That is to say, I or the self that is me whom I must accompany."

"And does this self realise that the self that is the friend to this self is obliged to accompany him in order to ensure that he doesn't get himself shot?" I asked bluntly. Holmes smiled, brightening.

"By Jove, Watson, if you aren't such a loyal self as another self could want. But here we are at six Salisbury Road and I do believe that something of interest has occurred in our absence."

True to his inference, I caught a glimpse of Herbert glancing out the window before he disappeared and a moment later came dashing out to meet us.

"Mr. Holmes, thank goodness you've come. I had hoped you might visit. This business is becoming more and more alarming!"

"Let's go inside and you can tell us all about it," said Holmes calmly. Once seated, Herbert began.

"I suppose this shouldn't really be anything to worry about, only with the letter and everything I've become quite anxious. You see, Jane goes to the bakers each day to fetch some bread as it's a short walk and good for her condition. Today she came home troubled and, when I asked her what was the matter; she said that she had seen Doctor Berger in the marketplace looking at her and that he had seemed to be watching her the entire time as she went to and from the bakers. She also mentioned that she had thought she had seen him outside her house a couple of days ago, but hadn't been certain whether it was him. Now she is sure that it was."

"I see. And you believe this to be more than mere coincidence," stated my companion.

"Yes, I do. What should we do?" Holmes considered.

"I take it to be a fact that the Doctor lives near his surgery, close to this residence by his own admission. It is therefore highly likely that he would pass her house, or glimpse Ms. Kingsley at the morning market, especially if he is also in the habit of attending in the mornings. If he was watching her, it could well be because she has not yet answered his letter, unprofessional though it may be. It could also be that he is keeping watch over her progress as his patient, should he happen to see her by chance outside the surgery."

"Well, when you put it that way…" Herbert said sheepishly.

"I would still recommend that you remain cautious. Where is Ms. Kingsley?"

"Preparing lunch in the kitchen. Would you like to speak with her?"

"No, that won't be necessary, unless you think there's anything else she could tell us?"

"She told me everything."

"In that case I wish you good day. I will continue looking into your case and contact you if anything pertinent is revealed."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, and you, Dr. Watson."

For several hours following Holmes said, did and ate nothing. His gaunt figure ceaselessly paced to and fro, brows knitted in concentration. Finally, when the afternoon had faded into evening, the sound of his rich voice caused me to look up from my book.

"I am more convinced than ever from our friend Herbert's testimony that we must ascertain the contents of that box, even if we must do so 'outside of the law', as the woman would say." The 'woman' he referred to was Irene Adler whom I have mentioned before as being the only criminal apart from Professor Moriarty to ever outsmart my companion, for which she had earned his utmost respect.

"Then I'm coming with you. I'd much rather be outside of the law than outside of your jail cell." Holmes' eyes gleamed.

"Your revolver is in your coat pocket which is on your coat on the coat stand." He sprang to his feet. "We must not delay."

The surgery was dark and forsaken, and the rolling grey clouds above us gave ample cover. Holmes led us around the side to a window looking onto the reception area. Silently, he pushed open the window and we climbed through.

"How did you-?" I began to whisper.

"Ms. Alice Shepard, secretary has recently become enamoured with a soldier honourably discharged from her Majesty's service who bade her leave the window open so that he might leave her flowers each morning without being caught." I shook my head at yet another of my friend's personas and the explanation for his recent frequent solo excursions. We crept to the secretary's desk and Holmes opened drawer from which he removed a key and stealthily unlocked the door to the consulting room. He stole over to the shelf, feeling his way in the darkness as I kept watch.

I heard the slight rustle of papers as his hand searched for the box he had earlier that day inspected. A sharp intake of breath told me that something was wrong.

"It's gone," Holmes murmured. "He must be desperate." Something seemed to occur to him, for he grabbed my arm, beginning to hastily make for the door. "He's there," he whispered hoarsely and broke into a run. I followed him and we sprinted to what I knew must be Ms. Kingsley's house to find I knew not what. Holmes slowed as we neared the house, and motioned for me to be quiet as he carefully swung the gate open. I drew my revolver as we hurried cautiously across the grass and past the garden table where we had taken tea. A window had been smashed from the outside, the broken shards pushed away for someone to enter. We negotiated it as silently as we could, wincing as the glass crunched softly under out feet. Several muffled thuds as of footsteps issued from upstairs. I caught Holmes' eye and he glanced at my revolver and nodded slightly before ascending the carpeted stairs as quietly as they would allow. I saw that dim light shone underneath the second door to the left as I reached the top and my heart began to race. To think that such a feeble, gentle woman was in any danger filled me with outrage. Holmes lightly placed his hand on the door handle, paused, then flung it open.

I will never forget the disturbing and extraordinary scene that confronted us there in that room. On the floor lay Jane Kingsley, unconscious and quite pale. Scrupulously attached to her neck was an intravenous tube from which dark blood was flowing into a medical bag. Suddenly the unusual questions and insistence of a blood sample made sense, though I knew little of such recent developments myself. I was aware, however, that a fellow practitioner Doctor Landsteiner had been testing and had just proven the existence of three different blood groups: A, B and O. I pulled myself from my reverie and turned my attention to the man standing in front of Ms. Kingsley. Doctor Berger, pallid face oddly greenish from the faint light of the lamp, had a revolver in his hand pointed slightly shakily at Holmes.

"I heard you as you entered," he sneered. Well, well: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I take it you are the 'cousin' who consulted me. Very clever. Unfortunately, not clever enough. Revolver on the ground, if you please. Now, kick it towards me." He picked up the revolver and put it in his pocket, keeping his other hand levelled at Holmes. "You've put me in a most unfavourable situation, gentlemen."

"Ah, so it was favourable before, was it?" Holmes interrupted.

"I would mind your tongue if I were you, Mr. Holmes, or things will become even less favourable for you."

"What are you doing, Berger?" I demanded as Holmes took a breath to answer. "This is against the oath and pointlessly dangerous; you'll lose your licence, not to mention be arrested. Keeping hostages is hardly going to help your current predicament."

"You know nothing," hissed the Doctor. "Do you think I'd be doing this if I had a choice? How many willing donors do you know? I only took enough to satisfy my health," he explicated, "never permanently harmed them."

"My God," I breathed, "you're the vampire. The Camberwell vampire."

"But now that has to change," he continued ominously, a man pushed over the edge. "At least, for you. I'll have an extra supply this way, though, so I suppose I should be thanking you."

"What do you mean?" I looked at Holmes questioningly who gave a half smile sadly back. Berger sneered, pale eyes glinting with menace.

"The Doctor hasn't comprehended. I'm disappointed." A paroxysm of fear and alarm shot through my heart as the realisation struck me.

"You're type B."

"Yes, very good, Dr. Watson, but I'm afraid our little conversation must come to an end. You've actually done me a favour in saving me the effort of looking for a patient who evidently didn't exist. But, before I am forced to dispose of you, you can be of medical service to me, and please don't refuse or I'll have to shoot you. Prepare your associate for a rather generous donation from the neck – here are the materials. No tomfoolery or I shoot him in the leg, then you in the head. And I'm rather sure that Jane here wouldn't appreciate the mess when she eventually awakens."

"You're mad," I exclaimed, the last vestiges of composure leaving me as his words sunk in. "You'd have the murder of two innocent people on your hands rather than risk capture? You said yourself you haven't damaged anyone, you'd only face a jail sentence."

Don't you realise how dangerous this is? For all we know there are fifty other blood groups. Or maybe another treatment for your illness-"

"Quiet, you fool! You don't understand," he scoffed. "Whether in jail or by the noose I will die, unless I can continue using my donors. I need the cells, the healthy blood." And finally it dawned on me, the cause of all this madness. I looked the Doctor in the eye.

"Anaemia. That's what you have, isn't it? There's no cure-"

"No more delaying!" roared Berger furiously. "Do it."

My mind raced as I tried to think of a solution to this terrible, such a horrible circumstance. To be the one to end my friend's life was more than I could bear. But I had the medical equipment in my hands and Berger watching me with a revolver in his hand as well as my own in his pocket.

I fervently wished that I could die rather than perform the awful task demanded of me. I myself had never attempted to draw blood; it was simply too dangerous without enough scientific knowledge. Even Landsteiner had yet not been officially recognised for his discoveries, nor had the science of blood transfusions been perfected. But Berger was clearly mad in the desperation to live and we would both die for certain if I didn't; there was nothing I could do. Slowly and with a heavy ache in my heart, I turned towards my friend. To my bewilderment, his dark eyes were still alight, a slight amused smile playing upon his face.

"No fear, Watson," he murmured gently, the eyes looking kindly into my own. "I said our friendship drained me. No kinder hand could hasten the ruthless will of a madman." His warmth renewed my hope, though I was still grave with sorrow at what was about to pass if whatever plan that lit my comrade's eyes failed. Painstakingly, I took out a swap, knelt in front of him and began to disinfect his neck, praying that our enemy would suddenly collapse before the dreaded moment. As soon as I was in front of him, Holmes surreptitiously drew his hand to his jacket pocket and soon held his revolver which Berger had neglected to discover, hidden from the Doctor's sight. I nearly sighed with relief, but instead grimly kept at my task, praying that the fanatical Doctor hadn't sensed anything awry.

"Berger," said Holmes clearly from behind me. "Only one thing more. See my hand?" He raised his left hand above my head. Instantaneously, there was a loud report and Berger fell onto his side with a bellow clutching at his arm.

We rushed over to him, Holmes seizing the gun from his hand as I retrieved mine from his pocket. "My gun is in the other hand," Holmes resumed. Berger groaned. "He's taken so much blood already, I don't know that he needs our help," Holmes commented harshly.

"If only justice were so cruel," I replied as I tended to Ms. Kingsley. She was very weak, presumably drugged. The tube had been precisely placed, and fortunately so for less than an inch in any direction, I knew, could have resulted in fatality. I only hoped that we weren't already too late.

"You're fortunate we're on the side of justice," Holmes added coldly and threw Berger a bandage from the medical kit. "As it happens, you're lucky you didn't kill me, because I promise you that Watson would have forsaken all Hippocratic oaths in such an event."

"Ms. Kingsley will need the hospital," I announced as I cautiously removed the tube.

"And Berger needs his cell. I'll call Lestrade."

"You've killed me," moaned Berger, nursing his arm.

"You've destroyed yourself," Holmes responded sternly.

"What's inside the box?" I asked Holmes when we were finally left alone in the room. Holmes stooped and picked it up from the remaining supplies left by the Doctor.

"The device by which most of London became anxious of the existence of vampires." He held up the key he had taken from Berger's pocket and opened the case. Inside was a hand-held device with two small rounded knife points attached.

"It was an ingenious idea by a desperate man," I remarked. "Only who knows when a slight error in judgement or a lack of knowledge could have resulted in murder."

"It was only a matter of time," agreed my friend. "Thank you for washing my neck, by the way, I was in need of a good clean."

"Honestly, Holmes, do you not realise how close we came to a dirty end?"

"I have washed my hands of the matter." We were both smiling covertly now.

"Could you wash the floor of your chamber while you're at it?"

"I haven't the time for that!" He replaced the implement. "I must take Ms. Shepard her last bouquet of flowers before Trevor Pickering leaves England forever to seek his fortune in America. I'd hate to leave her fearing the worst." I scoffed.

"And what about Herbert Lancaster?"

"I'm sure he'll be relieved to know that his rival will be spending quite some time in prison." He tucked the box under his arm. "Lestrade will be most interested in this, I'm sure. Shall we?" I followed him out of the heavy atmosphere of the chamber as we both put the disquieting events of that case behind us forever.

- 16 -


End file.
